Sonnet XXVIII

The edge of the green wave whitely doth

Upon the wetted sand.

I look, yet dream.

Surely reality cannot be this!

Somehow, somewhere this surely doth but seem!

The sky, the sea, this great extent

Of outward joy, this bulk of life we feel,

Is not something, but something interposed.

Only what in this is not this is real.

If this be to have sense, if to be

Be but to see this bright, great sleep of things,

For the rarer potion mine own dreams I'll

And for truth commune with imaginings,  Holding a dream too bitter, a too fair curse,  This common sleep of men, the universe.